


Virion!Morgan & Gerome’s Support Log

by Ayoprincess



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Brothers, Gen, Male!Morgan deserves a sibling, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:48:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24532564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayoprincess/pseuds/Ayoprincess
Summary: I think Male!Morgan deserves an older brother.
Relationships: My Unit | Reflet | Robin/Viaur | Virion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	1. C-Support

**Author's Note:**

> I think Male!Morgan deserves an older brother.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short series of supports between Virion!Morgan and Gerome.

_“Morgan! Morgan, where are you!” A young Gerome pushed and shoved anxiously through the sea of people as the ship departed from the port. He clutched at his satchel and a little box as his small body shifted as wildly as his dilated pupils._  
_The violet miasma steadily creeped in from the mainland—scarcely hiding the monsters that lurked within. The panicked citizens of Rosanne gazed longingly over their fallen nation, acting as naught more than obstacles in his search. “Morgan! Morgan!” His throat burned as the name vanished into the hysteria._  
Gerome’s head lurched from his pillow with his eyes blown wide. He gripped at his sweat soaked pillow as he scanned the room. The simple setup and holler of comrades just beyond the tarp reminded him of his current place in the past. It took a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart, but it did little for his pounding head.

###

Just outside the stables, Gerome sighed as he slid his hand over Minerva’s plated nape; he thought back on the cause of his more recent night terrors—the boy they’d returned with from the Ruins of Time.  
He couldn’t be the same Morgan, just a stranger from another time…but the torrent in his stomach refused to yield. _‘What if he is that Morgan?’_ or _‘What if, in another future, fate had spared him?’_ His head spun with such questions, but the loudest of them all, _‘Why is he here?’_  
When they had travelled to the past, he had long since come to terms with the loss of his ~~brother~~ ward, and there was no correcting his failures. Although the others had returned in hopes of preventing Grima’s devastation the boy had no recollection of going back, let alone why or how he did. But it was almost like he was sent here to remind him that despite everything, fate always prevails.  
Time after time, like clockwork, that one would hunt him down and hound him like any other. And, his pestering started off simply enough,  
‘Why do you wear a mask?’  
‘You’re like some kind of dark hero of justice!’  
‘I bet mother’d be impressed if I rode a wyvern too!’  
Just a couple childish questions and comments, it was bothersome, but Minerva didn’t seem bothered and was an ever willing decoy. But that all changed after he made the mistake of joining Robin in the mess tent for dinner.  
“Cherche is your mom?” Morgan’s exclamation tore through the tent, but earned little more than guffaws, duhs and a ‘Shaddup,’ from a certain miffed redhead. His eyes lit up—practically burning his very soul.  
He smacked his head at the memory, ‘Of course he was there!’ Wherever Robin went he was almost guaranteed to follow. From then on, his questions grew more frequent, more…personal. At a glance one would think him a simple mild mannered young lad, but his curiosity was insatiable and his drive, downright shameless.  
“Were you raised in Rosanne?”  
“Is it as pretty as father said?”  
“Is your armor from Rosanne?”  
It was maddening! Rebuffing, ignoring, hiding—nothing worked! He was more persistent than Inigo and twice as aggravating. At times Lord Virion would reign him in; declaring his eagerness to share the beauty of his homeland with his precious scion, alas he could only distract Morgan so often.  
Suddenly, Gerome was dragged back to reality when Minerva let out a low growl and lunged forward. He just barely saw the wisp of light turquoise drop as she pounced from under him—tackling some poor unsuspecting bystander.  
‘Shit!’ Gerome rigidly approached her victim with his fists clenched and his teeth grit. The abrupt move gained the attention of more than their fair share of Shepherds. Skeptical glares and frightened stares made a tense situation worse. But the atmosphere all but melted away when the victim took a lungful of air and burst out.  
“Haha… Minerva, no… wait… ha… tha-that hehe… TICKLES!” just under what looked like a vicious attack, was Morgan writhing below the draconic beast. A smile blossomed on his face, as he playfully held her back, before wincing and soothing his head. “My bad.” He rubbed at her crown and wound his arms around her neck as best he could.  
Seemingly satisfied with the display, the crowd stifled a few chuckles and dispersed, tossing a ‘be more careful’ and ‘don’t scare us like that’ for good measure. Finally, Morgan noticed Gerome’s concerned gaze and gingerly wiped some slobber from his face—especially cautious where a large bruise was forming on his forehead.  
“…That wound,” Gerome winced as though the angry lump were his own.  
“Oh, don’t worry about this ol’ thing! Actually, it’s half the reason I was looking for you.”  
Gerome could feel his scowl dip even further. “I am no cleric.”  
“That’s not what I meant! You see, I was trying to—”  
“Tsk, Minerva, to me!”  
“Wait a second!” With a grip much stronger than his loose cloak would suggest, Morgan wrenched him back by his arm, “You know me, don’t you?”  
Gerome blanched at the desperation that laced his words; his heart rate picked up as ice tore through his veins.  
“I had my suspicions, but Minerva’s and your reaction clinched it!” Guardedly, Morgan loosened his grip, “I heard from Cynthia,” he ignored Gerome’s not so subtle groan, “You weren’t just born in Rosanne right? You lived there before too, before the attack? Did you know me? You must have!”  
Morgan’s blind determination was grating, and all too quickly Gerome came to his senses, “Come Minerva, we’re leaving…”  
“Wait—”  
“I care not for your delusions nor the fantasy you’ve constructed!”  
“But there’s—”  
Suddenly, the floor gave out from beneath him, taking about six feet and his dignity with it. The walls were padded and whatever structure held it up made for a decent landing, but no mask could hide the red that swallowed him next.  
“S-sorry!” finally breaking from his trance, Morgan panicked to pull Gerome from the pitfall. “I completely forgot about that one! And I wasn’t sure if I filled or not! I guess I’m a better tactician than I thought,” but despite his flippant attitude, he frantically began patting and beating dirt off while trying to glimpse the knight’s downturned gaze, “No hard feelings right? What’s a little booby trap between friends? Heh heh…heh?”  
“You,”—Gerome was trembling—“you are a stranger! And I find your presence and your pestering exceedingly burdensome!” With every step he took, his fury seemed to worsen, “Tactician? You’re like a child playing strategy, your scheming causes more ill than aid and you haven’t the wherewithal to recognize that!” Stepping in front of Morgan, Gerome gripped his shirt and shoved him back.  
“I—”  
“No, you have no reason to involve yourself with me. So just leave me ALO—” he finally paused, startled by his own tone, “nevermind, this entire interaction was a mistake,” Gerome huffed a sigh and turned, not even bothering to mount Minerva before they were both gone.


	2. B-Support

***Several Years Prior***

_ Air was hard to come by as Gerome ran as quickly as his tiny legs could carry him. He ran by swatches of flowers, only stopping occasionally to peer past some particularly dense bushes.  _

_ “Morgan! Where are you!” he called, finally fed up. _

_ “Shhhhhhh!” _ — _ pudgy hands pressed over his mouth _ — _ “mama’ll hear you!” he shouted with all the stealth he could muster.  _

_ With an affirmative nod from Gerome he dropped his hold and pulled him one bush over from where he had been searching. “They should be here any minute, is it ready yet?” The two sat behind the shrubbery and peeked over carefully to see Virion and Robin strolling just over the hill’s crest. _

_ Looking proud, Morgan pointed to a slightly sunken pile of torn grass, “I couldn’t finish the pitfall, so I covered it and put a net in that tree”—he pointed to the tree next to it— “when they step on the trigger, it’ll trap ‘em! It’s called misditection!”  _

_ “Really?”—Gerome gapped—“Wow! You’re just like a real master tactician!” _

###

Regret. No word better defined the dread thrashing about in Gerome’s gut as he curled over Minerva. After their escape, they found solace in a field just outside of camp. So pitiful was his disposition that Minerva had yet to even chastise him. The beauty truly understood her master as she did no more than nestle him further with her tail.

Hearty winds billowed over the feathery grass, taunting him with the memories he had spat on. It was in a field just like this one that they would play.  _ ‘He wanted so desperately to meet the other kids and now that he’s here he’s still chasing behind me…’ _ Gerome ripped into the turf wistfully as he remembered the traps Morgan would set gleefully and the ones they set together even more so.  _ ‘A pitfall huh?’ _ A groan tore through his chest as his cruel words were thrown back to the forefront of his mind. _ ‘A child playing strategy! What kind of a fool am I…’ _

He stared at the clouds before finally turning over to Minerva, “What if he is… him? What if I said that to our Morgan,” her eyes remained closed with only a light gnarr in response to his agonized whisper. “I know it was callous, I know he’s well meaning but,” he stifled a whimper as the toothy smile from his memories melded with the one from just moments ago, “… I just can’t.” Gerome pulled off his mask and she peered into his eyes, “It’s more likely that he’s not our Morgan anyway. But, if he does hail from another timeline, an impostor… then what? Minerva, what should l—”

“There you are!” Gerome bristled when the familiar voice boomed over the field. Morgan stumbled into the clearing—his pale blue hair messier than his father would ever stand for and his breath heavy, “Sorry!”—he skidded to his knees in kowtow—“I didn’t mean to bug you like that.”

Gerome adjusted his mask and averted his gaze in an effort to recompose himself.  _ ‘He shouldn’t be the one to apologize’ _

“I shouldn’t have been as insistent as all that, you’ve been through a lot and that was wrong of me. Can we talk?”

_ ‘I’m the one who’d wronged him—then and now’ _ his own thoughts rejected him as the open pasture began to close in. The ground beneath him felt as though it were rocking and swaying, as though he were back on that damned boat. Although Morgan stood right before him he felt miles away. Every step closer was met with incessant rejection. 

_ ‘No’ _

_ ‘No’ _

_ ‘No’ _

“When I’d heard you were from Rosanne I thought…you might’ve known me. And if that were the case you could tell me what it was like then and we could talk about what's changed…or something, you know?” Guilt threatened to strangle Gerome as Morgan fidgeted with his sleeve, still excited, but now marred by whispers of distress. 

The boy wanted answers and in all likelihood, he was the only one who could offer them. But before a single utterance could force his lips, another argued.

_ ‘But they’re not the same,’ _ the same voice that chastised and criticized him regularly. 

_ ‘But he deserves  _ **_something_ ** _ all the same…it's not like it’ll change anything. _

_ ‘And if it does—when, it does… you’ll simply use him to replace Morgan—like you did your parents.’ _

_ ‘I—‘ _

He felt Minerva nudge at his ribs as she gestured to the boy before them, her gaze on Morgan was tender and warm—like that of a mother seeing her child once more. Like with his own parents, she didn’t care when he came from, she was just content to be together again. Gerome carefully took a breath and with an indignant turn grunted a response.

“Fine… follow me.”


	3. A-Support

*Several Years Prior*

_ The hurried padding of tiny feet, followed by a light clicking gait, echoed through the busy halls of Rosanne’s newly restored castle.  _

_ “Hurry mommy, Hurry!” Gerome doubled back to jerk his mother forward. _

_ Cherche tittered at his eagerness, unfazed by his tugging, “They’ll still be there whether we get there in ten seconds or ten minutes,” her pleasant smile never left her face despite his obvious displeasure. Needless to say, he was quick to drop her hand and raced off on his own. _

_ The double doors opened with a flourish as Gerome stumbled his way past the attendants. An ear piercing cry shook the walls, accompanied by a heavy groan and weak laughter. _

_ Undeterred, Gerome pressed forward to where Virion sat near Robin, with his face in his hands, and the bundle she was happily shushing. With a limp bow and apology—just in case his mother found out _ — _ he crawled onto the empty space the lady of the manse offered. “Can I see? Please!” Already on his knees, the boy clasped his hands brandished the widest puppy eyes he could muster. _

_ Robin carefully tugged back the cashmere blanket to reveal a tuft of cyan hair and flushed chubby cheeks. Tired from his performance, the small child burrowed into his sheets with a generous yawn. Seeing the look of contentment on his face, she adjusted her hold to give Gerome a better look. _

_ “It’s so fat!” _

_ An unladylike snort preceded her as she spoke, “His name is Morgan, I hope you two’ll get along well.”  _

_ “Why don’t you say ‘hi’,” it had barely registered that his mother had finally caught up, “I expect you to look out for him,” he couldn’t help staring at the baby fidgeting in his fluffy enclosure.  _

_ “ _ … _ H-hi Morgan,”—he paused and placed a hand under his pout, thinking deeply on his next words—“Lucina said, when her mommy had a baby she got to be a big sister, but I’ll be your big brother since you don’t have one; make sure to grow up real big!” _

_ As though reacting to his greeting, Morgan gave a wide gummy grin that had everyone fighting for a closer look. _

###

Morgan circled the new dimension with curious—nosy—eyes; as expected of someone like Gerome, somehow the sheer practicality of the space made the already uninspired shelter look even bleaker. 

“Here,”

With so little warning, Morgan fumbled to steady the intricately carved box that was flung in his direction. Once secure he inspected the clean, but aged object, “What is…”

“Open it.”

Although slightly miffed by the curt response, he was growing accustomed. Morgan carefully unlatched the container before approaching the cleared table to relieve it of its contents. Gerome stood back with his arms folded, as per usual, but his grip felt tighter and his cheek stung as he bit down on its walls.

Morgan once again scrambled to hold his surprise together. From the canister tumbled: painted marbles, a red feather quill, a carved wyvern piece and an unsealed letter he had to pry from the walls. As he laid out the objects before him he returned his attention to Gerome.

“Are these…mine?”

Gerome nearly drew blood as he bit harder, “I’m not sure,” he lifted his hand before Morgan could voice his frustrations, “they belong to the Morgan of my timeline, but whether you and he are the same— I am unsure.” Morgan looked at the arbitrary assortment once more, “The marbles were a gift from your father,” he steadied his words, “the wyvern—you snatched from your parents’ game board and the quill…was assembled by me…from a feather you found.”

As the letter went unmentioned, Morgan unfurled it from its confines. He flinched at the vividly colored painting, the strokes were an odd amalgamation of gentle and brash, as one would expect from a child. In it was a castle surrounded by splotches he assumed to be flowers and other greenery, but what shook him to the bone were the centremost caricatures. Granted, the figures were grossly misshapen, but going off of the colours used, the fact that it was in Gerome’s care and most of all the title, ‘Me and My Big Brother,’ he knew it was of him and Gerome.

Wide eyes burned past his mask, narrowly missing his sightline. In response to the unvoiced inquiry, Gerome spoke up, “We’re not related,”—Morgan averted his eyes briefly, trying to ignore whatever concern nearly crossed his mind—“But, I’ve known you since you were born…and lost you when you were still young.” Despite the seizing in his throat he pressed on, “The others do not recognize you because in those times, you were still too young to visit Ylisse, whereas I had been ferried to and fro for some time.” Gerome sat back on his cot, while Morgan turned in his chair. “Even as a child you’d involve me and the rest of the castle in your harebrained schemes…it was like that for years. Unfortunately…”

He went on to grudgingly spin the tale of Grima’s siege and his departure from Valm; from when they abandoned the castle to when he was separated from Morgan. Years spent searching for even just a hint of the young lord of Rosanne, a whisper of the missing son of House Virion.

“And I hadn’t heard talk of you since, I presumed you dead. It goes without saying, I haven’t a clue what you’d been doing since or why you’re here now. But,” he shut his concealed eyes, “do you remember me? At all?”

“…No.” The simple words that he himself had thrown haphazardly at others had never seemed to carry such weight until now. He was thankful for his battle hardened expression as he heard the chair scuff the ground beneath. “But, I’d like to know more, if you’d tell me—we are brothers after all.”

Against his greater efforts a smile broke out on his face as he shook Morgan’s outstretched hand.

“Likewise.”


End file.
